


Hidden in the Drawers

by Isbjorn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depressed John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I Really Suck at Tags Guys, Implied/Referenced Past Suicide Attempt, Light Angst, M/M, Music, Nosy Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, References to Depression, Sherlock Plays the Violin, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isbjorn/pseuds/Isbjorn
Summary: Sherlock has made a game out of deducing John's past three years in 221B. He doesn't expect to find anything of significance; really, he only starts the game out of boredom and mild curiosity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to leave me constructive criticism and general comments.

> _“Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.”_  
>  _― Victor Hugo_

 

The right hand, top drawer of John's desk has been opened hundreds of times in Sherlock's absence. He can tell because, when he pulls it out, the grooves, where the wheels that allow it to slide in and out of the frame rest, have deepened considerably. There is a scratch at the lip of the drawer that wasn't there before. The amount of dust is not consistent with three years of disuse. There was no doubt that John had been opening this drawer repeatedly in the wake of Sherlock's death. A drawer empty save for the solid weight of a singular, metallic object; John's gun.

Sherlock's hand froze on the handle as he stared silently into the drawer deducing these minuscule details and forming assumptions. The click of the front door opening snapped Sherlock back into the present. He quickly shut the drawer and turned on his heel, striding over to the couch and throwing himself down on it. As footsteps sounded up the stairs Sherlock threw an arm over his face and let his body go limp, praying John would assume he had been like that for a while.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice rang through the silence of the apartment as the door to their flat opened. Sherlock tracked John’s movement through the sound of his bag hitting the floor and shoes being kicked off just inside the entry way. The waver in John’s voice, the uncertainty there, was not new. It had been there in the slight hesitation of John’s tone since the first time he had uttered it upon Sherlock’s return. Yet the detective had missed it just the same. A wave of guilt crashed against the shore of Sherlock’s consciousness; the brilliant detective that couldn’t recognize the lingering grief in his flat mate’s heart.

“Ah, there you are. Tea?” Sherlock startled imperceptibly at the sudden sound of that deep voice above him. With the slight nod of his head Sherlock let his arm fall to his chest and opened his eyes to stare into the green above him. How had Sherlock missed that undercurrent of worry, even apprehension, in John’s loyal gaze? The two men stared at each other for an indeterminable number of seconds, each lost in their own thoughts, before John gave a quiet _right_ and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The ceiling, slightly faded from old age, was no proper replacement for John. Sherlock frowned disapprovingly and closed his eyes. When the tea was finished, John returned, placing one mug on the floor by Sherlock’s dangling hand and the other on the side table next to his chair. Sherlock did not touch his cup the rest of the night. He didn’t move from the couch until well into the morning. He spent the hours between pacing the halls of his mind palace, wracking his memory of every image of John, trying to find what else he had missed.

 

The game is not as fun when one has found something that cannot be taken as fun while playing it. Two children playing hide and seek cease to play the game at the local park when one of them nearly falls into a pit. A man stops playing beer pong when he nearly dies from alcohol poisoning while playing it. Sherlock has decided to stop playing “find the differences” around the flat when he finds the next thing that changes his assumptions of John’s life during his death. Really, Sherlock realizes he should have quit playing when he deduced the thing with the gun. But, some people must learn things the hard way.

Sherlock had expected his room to remain exactly the way it was when he left it. He had expected to find three years’ worth of dust on the counters, an expired experiment beneath one of the loose floorboards in the corner, and a full hamper bin. However, Sherlock only finds one of these things to be true when he sets to taking apart his room inch by inch.

The hamper bin is, unsurprisingly, full.

The experiment beneath the floorboards in the corner is, unexpectedly, thriving in the dark conditions despite Sherlock’s nonexistent attention. It had been a possibility, but a highly unlikely one.

Confusingly, the shelves have all been dusted, and recently at that.

At first, Sherlock assumes that Mrs. Hudson must have been cleaning the flat while he was gone. Surely the old woman had seen John’s miserable state and decided that she needed to help him out around the house. The woman may have vehemently denied being their maid but she brought up enough treats and gave enough advice to confuse herself for their mum. But, when Sherlock turned to his bed he noticed something he hadn’t since he had returned.

That faint smell of John’s cologne was stronger than it had any reason to be near his bed. The pillows were flatter than he had left them. The bed had not been made with that military preciseness. And since when did Sherlock sleep with a bottle of scotch and a half empty bottle of Ambien in the bottom drawer of his night stand. Sherlock decided to stop looking for hidden differences in the flat when he noticed the prescription date did not line up with the number of pills missing and the bottle of opened scotch had quite a bit missing from it for having been opened so recently.

 

John turned to the side and walked to the window. His hands gripped the sill as he leaned forward to press his forehead against the chilled glass. Sherlock watched as John’s eyes closed, as his breath fogged the window. Rain steadily knocked against the opposite side of the window, as if attempting to draw John’s attention from the man behind him. The man who had finally gathered courage he wasn’t aware he lacked to bring up the assumptions he had made about the pills, the scotch, and the gun.

“For a time, I wasn’t sure I could live a life without you.” The previous silence of the room seemed to take on an extra weight. It was as if someone had deposited the two men in a sound proofed room, so deadly silent Sherlock could hear his heart racing, every breath reflected off the window John took. Every syllable of every word came amplified against the backdrop of these sounds. “It wasn’t just the fact that I… That I missed you. It was the way that everything reminded me of you, of our life together. I went to the hospital and I carried on throughout my shift doing the mundane things I do every day, and when I left I couldn’t go home. I knew that the flat would be empty. I knew that I would be ordering Chinese for one, making one cup of tea, sitting alone in this living room where a madman used to sit and sulk and solve impossible murders.”

John’s knuckles were white against the wood of the sill. His body was strung so tight Sherlock could almost feel the tension beneath his own skin. Before Sherlock could stop himself, he was walking towards John, closing the distance that had spread between them.

“I couldn’t look Greg in the face for a few solid weeks after they drug me away from your side. It was too much to know that if I looked in his face I would see nothing but pity. We wouldn’t go to the bar to talk about how brilliantly you had solved this case or that or to laugh over something odd you had done without realizing it. No, we would sit down and drink beer and he would want to reminisce about how you _were_ mad, how you _used to be_ brilliant. And I just… I couldn’t.”

Sherlock hesitated when he reached John, standing so close behind him he could feel the heat of his body. John hadn’t moved though he must have heard Sherlock coming towards him. Panic began to lick at the edges of Sherlock’s mind. Was this going too far? What exactly did John mean by telling him this? Was there something beneath these admissions that revealed one more, very important, thing Sherlock had failed to notice in his self-centered hurricane of being or was he drawing conclusions that weren’t there to be drawn?

“Molly… She gave me your scarf. I was almost jealous that it was a decision she had the ability to make.” John gave a self-deprecating laugh and lifted his head barely an inch to bang it against the window. “You never truly realize what a ridiculous idiot you are until you feel possessive over a damn scarf.”

Sherlock’s arms came up and wrapped firmly around John’s torso eliciting a hitch and gasp in John’s breathing.

“I dreamt you would come to my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and watch me sleep.” John paused and the continued reflectively, “I realize it’s a bit creepy to admit out loud but it’s out now.” Sherlock’s arms only tightened around John. They stayed that way, silent, both thinking, for what felt like hours before Sherlock let out a deep sigh. His brow furrowed as he tried to think of something, anything to say, but his mind was at a loss. How can one convey the entirety of the strength and depth of their emotions in something as ordinary and inexpressive as words? With a frustrated huff Sherlock withdrew reluctantly from John who turned around, mouth opening as if to speak but then shutting once more as he watched Sherlock. Sherlock’s violin was resting in its case by the mantel, untouched these past three years, but kept dusted and clean.

While Sherlock was away he had no time to play the violin. He had also refused to touch any violin that was not _his_ violin which he had left back at the flat. The feel of the solid wood in his hands, resting atop his shoulder, was a comfort. The bow still fit perfectly into his hand as if an extension of it. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as his cheek lowered to rest against the base of the instrument. Any fears of errors due to lack of practice were erased at the first seamless chords and so Sherlock strained to play what he could not speak.

John watched, enraptured, as Sherlock’s face contorted in concentration, his body swaying with the rhythm and intensity of the piece he was playing. Every sleek line of his body orchestrated to further enhance the music pouring from those small strings strung tight against wood. The sight of Sherlock playing, the sound of music filling the flat for the first time since his death, was enough in and of itself to have John’s eyes tearing up. But, what brought those tears tracking down his cheeks like water burst from a dam was the pure, unadulterated emotion conveyed in every sound and expression.

When the last note had died, Sherlock stood frozen, bow still poised above the strings, face still set in lines. John is the one who made the first move this time. He takes the few short strides to Sherlock, his hands rising to take that brilliant, arrogant face in his hands, to rub his fingertips over those unearthly cheekbones and cupid’s bow lips. The kiss that follows that tentative touch is awkward at first and then unbearably intimate. Not in the fire or passion or urgency behind it but the pressure and simplicity of John’s lips finally pressing against Sherlock’s. Sherlock could not have contained the small whimper that sounded deep in his throat at the contact if he had tried.


End file.
